


the heroine and her author

by pegaeae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pegaeae/pseuds/pegaeae
Summary: the best lies are half-truths





	the heroine and her author

it is easier to pretend he pines over a married woman, easier to spin yarns for the seeker about hawke’s life, easier to lie by putting ink to a page and sprinkling it with dust until it is set, until it is law. if he was a better dwarf he’d etch it in stone–hawke on a ship with isabela, pirate hat tipped jauntily to the side, smile so wide that her cheeks dimple and the worry lines on her forehead smooth out. hawke dancing around a vast and empty estate with fenris, face flushed from wine and chest heaving as she laughs and spins into his arms and steps on his toes. hawke’s fingers entwined with merrill’s, their bare feet on lush grass and a crown of flowers in merrill’s black hair, hawke’s eyes filled with love. hawke in her own bedchamber, wrapped-arms around anders as they rock back and forth together, reveling in a moment of quiet, of comfort. 

the best lies are half-truths, though, and the half that remains unsaid is that it’s always been him. romance novels, bawdy novelettes–those are easy. but hawke? how could he have written it if it wasn’t  _him_?

he feels no guilt for using their mutual friends’ names and likenesses in his tall tales. they would be lucky to see the way hawke’s eyes burn, half-lidded and dark with lust, to feel her hands on their skin, to taste her lips on theirs.

it was varric on the ship with hawke, headed out of kirkwall with isabela at the helm, watching hawke tilt the hat on her banner of bright red hair and mapping every line of her body with worshipful eyes–the indentation of her dimples, the curve of her teeth and lips, the way her eyes crinkle and those pale eyelashes brush against her freckled cheeks. 

it was varric in the amell estate being waltzed around the cold and empty kitchen by a heavily intoxicated hawke, her body twisting and twining as she spun him and then spun herself, laughter pealing like bells, echoing through the estate, bare feet stepping on his booted toes as she wraps her arms around his neck and lays her head atop of his. 

it was varric in the grassy meadow, spinning a tall tale while hawke lay in the grass, eyes closed and hair spread around her like a halo, soaking up a rare day of bright sun far away from the oppressive walls of the city, completely at ease while she listens to the sound of his voice, a crown of flowers half crushed beneath her head.

it was varric in hawke’s bedchamber, shortly after the loss of her mother, shortly after the loss of his brother, holding each other the way that people with nothing else do, trying to anchor themselves to something, trying to keep going. he could feel her heart beat wildly against his chest, a hummingbird trapped in a cage of bone, punctuated only by her sharp intakes of breath as she cries silently into his shoulder. 

it had always been him. 


End file.
